Sunday, September 11, 2016

Scott Adamson and Kyle Dempster no
longer walk among us in this life. They died in Pakistan some time in the last
two weeks, attempting to climb one of the great mountaineering challenges of
this generation, the north face of the Ogre II. The Ogres are formidable
mountains, and even to gain entry to the 'easier' routes on that massif one
must be numbered amongst the world's elite. These guys were the real deal:
strong, well trained, experienced, and committed. And now they are gone.

As always happens in the aftermath
of death, many people are left with questions and introspection. Scott and Kyle
were well loved and integral members of the SLC and Utah climbing community. I
never met Kyle, however I shared some special times in the desert with Scott
and always considered him one of my mentors. I should say CONSIDER him still my
mentor, because today I got my ass out of bed and drove over to the gym and did
a workout, with proper integrity, because that's what Scott would do, and want
me to do.

We shared
some great adventures in the desert, like the time we were camped at the Creek and it dumped rain all
night, one of those intense fall rains. Scott didn't hesitate to wade out into
the swollen river in his skivvies and check the depth, then proceeded to ford
it in his truck as muddy water seeped around the doors and up through the
floor. Needless to say, 12 hours later his alternator died...sending us on a
midnight run through the star-studded desert canyons.

There
was another time on a Zion wall when we arrived at a gaping offwidth that none
of our gear would fit. It was my lead so I started up, but quickly got mired in
hesitation as I assessed the obvious ledge-fall I would take if I fell. “Gimme
the rack,” he said. Scott just took the gear and sent the thing without gear,
executing with perfect form.

Another
time that comes to mind is on the infamous ‘Ear’ pitch on Primrose Dihedral on Moses, one of the tallest towers in the desert.
Scott fell while transitioning from an awkward sloped undercling to a lieback
around the Ear. I expected him to pull back to the bolt. “Man, what is this? Hanging
on towers? Lower me!” Surprised, I lowered him to the anchor, he pulled the
rope without saying a word and then fired the pitch. I heard him hooting from
the summit and realized what a guy I was climbing with. Whenever things got burly, Scott's answer was "Yarrrr!"

Scott is a mentor for me not
because of his climbing skill, but for the way he WORKED. His talent in the
vertical world may have been natural, but his strength and tenacity were
hard-earned though sweat and effort. Scott truly beleived that he could realize
extremely long-shot goals, and make himself a better person in the process, by
devoting tremendous energy and heart to the betterment of himself. He trained
really hard, and often while working in the construction trade, or as a
wildland firefighter. He was a true blue-collar badass, proof that you don't
need a fancy gym, money, or status to be a successful athlete, all you need is
tons and tons of heart. He loved it. All of it, from the truck bivies to the
daily pain fests to the cold belays and suffering to the satisfaction of
sending hard, mentally demanding pitches. And he did it all without apology,
refusing to shoulder the burden of other people's judgment like so many of us
do. Beyond his strength and stamina, he had a rock-solid sense of himself, and
you could take it or leave it. He didn't bother bullshitting anybody - he had
no need to, because he knew who he was.

Scott set an example for me by his
two main strengths: heart and discipline. He is an example for how hard he was
willing to work, and how he refused to let fear cripple him once he committed
to seeking the limits of what is possible. He knew as well as anybody that when
you really are searching for that limit -- the boundary of what a human can do
-- truly terrifying things can be found. This is what Scott and Kyle were doing
in the Karakorum: striving to find the limit of human will that exists
somewhere in the sharp horizons of mountains and within the vast and shifting
spaces of our minds.

I fall short of these strengths on
a daily basis. I continually fail to believe in my abilities to improve myself;
I fail to trust the process of hard work; I fail to find the motivation to
engage in work with heart. I forget the successes of my past in the face of
fear and pain. I yield to my comfort-seeking mind, again and again. Sometimes,
however, I am able to believe, to act with strength, and to trust in forces
larger than myself. These are the finer moments of my life, the defining truths
that allow me to say: I am a person. I have a will. I am worthy.

I'm thinking mainly of climbing and
athletic feats as I write this (and many of you may identify with this as
well), but as I take a mental step back I realize that, of course, this applies
to every dimension of life. Whether it's doing the rehab for my hip surgery
with integrity, working on core stability instead of fun climbing so I can
avoid injury, finishing grad school, sticking to my budget so I can pay my
credit card on time, maintaining oil changes on my rig, keeping up with job
applications even though I get denials back, wiring a house well so it will be
safe and last for the owner, or continuing to support my fiancé so she knows
she is loved and special, these are all struggles that require heart and
discipline.

People like me (and maybe some of
you) need people like Scott. We need people who know, down to core, who they
are, and let you take it or leave it. We need examples of drive and sacrifice
to aspire to. It can be the smallest thing, like an evening after a long
day when I feel overwhelmed and just want to eat cereal and watch a TV show.
These are just crutches to assuage my mind, which want to be coddled. Sometimes
I think, what would Scott be doing? He'd tell me to eat real nutrition so I can
gain strength from the day's labors, and to do a few planks or physical therapy
exercises before I relax, and I'll relax better after that anyway. I know he'd
be right. This is just one small way that Scott will continue to live in my
life, and I'm sure he lives in more vibrant ways in a lot of other people's
lives.

Sadly, whenever young people die
and the circumstances involve their own decision (as opposed to be taken out by
a drunk driver, etc), there will always be bystanders, particularly on the
forum of the internet where courage is not a requisite for speech, who will
criticize the dead for being reckless or selfish. I guess I've been around long
enough now to refrain from reading the comments below articles.

I would say to these people: yes,
Scott and Kyle put themselves at risk, tremendous risk. At this high standard
of mountaineering, there is some certain probability of no return. Is that
unconscionable? Is that selfish? Answer me this: we all have a 100% probability
of dying; it is perhaps the one fact that is absolutely certain. What are you
doing with the days you have? Are you applying yourself as much as you know you
can? Are you living with heart and discipline? Are you doing anything that will
grow beyond your self and live in others?

The death of younger people always
starts this conversation about acceptable risk. There's another conversation
that I almost never hear: about the risk of so many choices that people make
that don't seem as 'risky' or 'extreme' at first glance. Like people that
choose to smoke, or drink heavily, or to not take care of their bodies. People
who don't do the work to find and keep motivation. People who don't honor their
word. Depression is very unhealthy; I know this from experience. I guarantee
you that all these people (and I may be amongst them) will die earlier than
they may have, yet they are usually not called out publicly as being
'reckless'.

I'm not going to call out these
people either. Who am I to do that? I'm merely going to question our societal
norm that we put longevity - the numbers of a person's life - on such a
pedestal above other things. Perhaps we can look at the quality of the life
that has been lived, and that can speak for itself.

I will dearly miss Scott. I am
sincerely grateful for his life, what he has given me and what he has given
many people. His example for me does not diminish by the fact that he died. It
will always burn inside me. How can I repay that gratitude? By living with
integrity, believing in the process of work, and taking on my own challenges
with heart and discipline. I already know that I'm going to fail at one million
of these challenges. But I can perhaps succeed at a few more because I have
examples like Scott.

Someone wrote on Scott's Facebook
page:

"They didn't die doing what
they loved, they LIVED doing what they loved."

Word.

Or was
Scott would say, “NWS”.

A warrior surveying the next days' challenge.

Note:

There has been an outpouring of
love and community support after Scott and Kyle's disappearance. It's always
good to be reminded that community exists and we are stronger together. Some
links:

A well-written article summarizing
their climb, the storm, and the rescue effort:

Sunday, February 28, 2016

The best part about small-town living is the eccentric traditions. Those bizzare events that coalesce out of old habits and morph into something unique. Everybody has a good time, and while most new participants don't know how the tradition started in the first place, it's the evolution of the thing that's the most fun.

Every year in midwinter, the entire hearty population of Laramie and surrounding towns descends on Centennial, Wyoming, population 270. Centennial is six buildings on the side of a highway, right at the base of the Snowy Range. The whole town shuttles up in pickup trucks to where the plowed road ends in the mountains and skis back to to town, mostly with a beer in hand. Costumes are highly encouraged. There are bonfires and roasting hot dogs, and eventually everyone glides with gravity back to Centennial where the town's one pizza oven pumps out hot pies and bands play into the night.

Some people think the 'Poker Run' started as a race, some as a poker game, some as both. Whatever it's origins, everyone agrees that by the time February rolls around in a small town on the high plains, after three months of cold temps, snow, and bludgering winds, a little mid-winter celebration is due.

Skate skis on a narrow trial choked with snowshoers: this happens a lot.

Friday, January 29, 2016

Climbing frozen waterfalls is a ridiculous thing to do. They're cold, they break sometimes, there are always falling objects. You're covered in spikes. You're rarely comfortable. At some level you know that things could go really wrong.

But man, aren't they cool?

There is nothing like the fractal chaos of ice to remind me of how alien our presence can be in some landscapes. Here the climber is a bizarre visitor in an even more bizarre land.

Too often we try to make sense of our world. As a student of science, it seems this is all we do. Sometimes it's best to behold these wild things that don't make sense, and just accept them. For the wise, this is enough. For some of us, we need to feel it for ourselves.

Monday, January 18, 2016

I don’t
have to squint to read the bumper sticker; it’s right there in front of me and
I know exactly what it says. I know, in fact, precisely what it means for me,
and that by some cosmic logic I pulled off the highway to pee five minutes ago
exactly so I would get back on behind this car and read these words that I’ve
been thinking right in front of my eyes. The invitation is right there. Can I
embrace it? I set the cruise control to 65 and watched the patchwork valley of
hayfields and pump jacks drift by, letting my thoughts slowly subside to
nothing.

Like all
mammals, there is war going on inside my head: two instincts, old as life
itself, pull in opposite directions. Self-preservation, the watchdog of the
individual life, instructs me to be cautious and scrutinize all potential risk.
It tells me to eat now while I can, and hoard food for later. But a herd of
self-centered individuals would fester and decay, confined to its immediate
surroundings and food supply, and never discover the ample bounty beyond the
next ridge. This competing instinct—to explore, take risks, and act
spontaneously on intuition—has landed many a creature in harm’s way, broken, lost,
or worse, but the discoveries and exploits help the community survive. This
conflict between comfort-seeking and risk-seeking behaviors has been documented
in birds, mammals, and human toddlers. As Homo
Sapiens grows to adulthood, the most advanced and subtle logic system in
the known universe learns to choose between these urges. Sometimes.

Of course,
I’m not a squirrel or an antelope or a hunter-gatherer in the wilderness; by
day I do gymnastics with linear algebra at a computer and in the evenings I do
silly things to satisfy physical urges, like ride a bicycle around in circles
or lift iron disks off the floor or climb up rocks the hard way so I can walk
down the other side. I generally do not worry about my survival. I have never
been predated upon, never endured famine, never weathered a storm without some
kind of shelter. I am, generally, safe.

I am,
however modern, still a mammal. Despite my swollen frontal cortex and its
powerful capacities to organize and reason, ancient instincts pull with an
irresistible tug. I squander resources on fruitless explorations, I eat far too
little walking far too long just to see the other side of a mountain range.
Sometimes I climb steep rocks without a rope, or use one where it wouldn’t
matter. I also eat and drink too much, hoard protein bars and noodle packets, sleep
when I have work to do, and avoid danger like the plague.

I am a whirlwind
of contrasts, a walking paradox. I pretend to control this animal with 27 years
of reasoning. I forget that the animal is 2.7 billion years old. 1:100,000,000;
how’s that for a ratio. I am a rider atop a surfboard, struggling to choose the
direction I paddle, unaware in my limited reference frame of the deeper
currents that move me.

I am a
reasonably smart person. I got into graduate school to study a field with a
name most people haven’t heard of. I can do magic tricks with pages of numbers,
draw order out of chaos, water from the rock. Sometimes I’m even smart enough
to recognize my own powerlessness. But not that often.

I started
climbing rocks because it felt good. At some point I tried climbing rocks that
seemed too hard and it felt amazing and empowering. I climbed rocks for
recognition, which felt pleasing, and faded. I climbed them to prove something
to myself, which led to exciting consequences and a few badly sprained ankles
and mostly a waste of time. Sometimes I climbed them because I felt the sun
streaming down from heaven and gravity evaporate on the wind, and I felt
connected to everything. The intensity of this connection fades, but once
attained, I never lose it.

These
days, I’ve learned not to try to create the sublime moments. After seven years
of dedication, I’m still pretty bad at forcing them. Sometimes I climb rocks to
share an experience with friends, and that is deeply satisfying. Mostly, these
days, I’m more aware of my own powerlessness paddling on the deep currents, and
by climbing rocks I get a glimpse of my real self, like catching a glace of my
reflection on the calm surface of a lake as the wind ripples recede for a
moment. For many of us, these breaks in the wind are the closest we get to
self-knowledge.

Most days
I let the currents of instinct take me where they will. The stakes are low
enough, why strive so hard to choose? Sometimes self-preservation wins and I
quit thirty minutes into a workout and sit on the couch and watch a Game of
Thrones episode and eat a pint of ice cream. And I feel satiated, in that
moment. Sometimes the exploratory, risk-taking urges win and I leave the snacks
alone and bike through the sunset into the dusk without a plan, or do extra
sets on an interval workout, or break ground in the garden with a pick axe, or
leave the computer alone and write a letter to my grandmother with a pen.
Sometimes I choose which path to take. But not often.

How much
power does my logical brain actually have over my emotional, instinctual self? Every
time I climb, my reflection in the vertical mirror forces me to deal with this
question. How many times do I find that instead of trying to climb up the rock,
I’m actually trying not to fall? No wonder the climb seems so hard. No wonder I
fall.

When I
think about my best climbs, they’re always the times when I was just an animal
moving up stone. I focused my attention on holds, movement, and solutions. Send
or sail, doesn’t matter—it’s the pure headspace that makes it memorable. On the
best pitches I’m letting my intrepid, exploratory self do what it knows what to
do—the “me” upstairs is just along for the ride. To enjoy. Perhaps to share the
story with another mind, later.

The road
turns to gravel at the Rifle Mountain Fish Hatchery and I ease my car up a
narrowing canyon of limestone cliffs. I park under the shade of a cottonwood
grove and walk up towards the crag to meet dear friends. The first saunters up
in purple tights like a court jester, embraces me in a warm hug. The second
emerges out of the forest from a nap, also clad in silly clothes. We walk up
beneath the steep walls, tie into a rope, and try hard for no purpose other
than the trying itself.

At a rest
stance I scan the cliff above for holds. I try to read the sequence, and all I
can tell is that it appears impossible. My grip is fatiguing. While searching
for footholds I notice the bolt below me, and the self-preservation urge tugs
with force. “You could just rest on that bolt,” it seems to say. “It’s safe.”
The voice is so enticing. Of course it’s safe. This is why we practice
hardship—this is why we look in the mirror—to gain the strength to resist that
voice. To earn the ability to choose. This is, I believe, what they call
consciousness.

I am still
weak, but I have trained. I look up from the bolt to the wall above. The
unknown. Nothing is certain, not even how I will use the first hold. The siren
song of comfort-seeking instinct drags me downward. Soon I will be too heavy to
climb. I remember my training, and I remember the bumper sticker. This,
clearly, is an opportunity be silent for once. I focus on the edge above and my
mind quiets, and then I notice something else: I’m curious about that edge, and
the next, and how I might manage to reach between them both. Like prodding the
embers of last night’s fire to life, I feel the exploration instinct stir deep
within. With my attention focused on the sliver of limestone above my face, I
shut up and let the curious animal climb up and seek what it wants to find.

Thursday, July 30, 2015

Sometimes, the balm of the day is Happy Hour, when we can
leave the stress and bustle of work and bike over to a friendly watering hole
to enjoy a cold tasty brew. This is the time to relax and banter with friends,
and enjoy a slower pace.

I enjoy the libations of Happy Hour sometimes, but the real
balm to my soul is the Golden Hour, that magic time just before dusk when the
sun does something ridiculous and paints the whole world in rich velvet rays.
It's as if the sun realizes that it's about to leave and throws a final burst
of its purest light over the world, a parting gift.

The Golden Hour is a special time. It's the time of my best
efforts, but not my hardest...it's a brief relaxation of the day when gravity
and fatigue lose their potency. These are the times when I float down the trail
on renewed legs and climb with renewed vigor, buoyed upward by a new lightness
before the close of the day. In winter, when I see that golden hue out the
office window before I leave, I see the chocolate walls of Indian Creek in my
mind's eye and recall days upon days of floating up splitters in the light of
the fading day, scaling the improbable cliffs with no more effort than
breathing.

As JD and I hiked over Jackass Pass into the Cirque of the
Towers this weekend I couldn't help continuing to look behind at the splendid silhouette
of Lost Temple Spire jutting into the horizon behind us, bathed in the light of
sunset. "Man, wouldn't it be sweet to be up there right now", I kept
saying. He said something about the annoyances of rappelling in the dark and I
had to agree, but maybe it's worth the cost...

We enjoyed a fun mellow day scrambling to summits in the
Cirque and enjoying spacious views of the range, then returned to camp for a
meal in the early evening. We'd been talking about the Lost Temple Spire too
much to let it lie in the unknown future anymore. Satisfied with some Raman
noodles and spicy peanut sauce, we broke camp, packed our bags and hiked south
over the pass with the Spire floating before us like a sentinel in the sunset.
Golden Hour. "Man, I'd like to be up there at this time tomorrow."

JD scopes the chiseled south face of Wolf's Head, some of the cleanest cracks in the Cirque.

Usually, I hit the Golden Hour at the end of day-long
climbs, massive efforts that drain me to the core, and the rich thick sunlight
comes as a blessing at the end of the day when I need a final boost of energy.
The spire in our view is only six pitches tall, totally feasible to climb and
descend in half a day. To be up there near sunset, we’d have to start late…

We were a little haggard from poor rest before the trip so
we luxuriated in ten hours of beauty sleep at Big Sandy Lake and enjoyed a
casual morning stretching and drinking coffee in the meadow. Buzzing mosquitos
were annoying but hey, you forget all the annoyances easily. We set off for our
destination with a super-alpine start of 9:30 AM and enjoyed the lovely walk to
Black Joe lake (wrong way…oops), crossed the shoulder of Haystack to correct
our error, and took an exhilarating dip in the cold clear waters of Deep Lake
underneath the majestic prow of Lost Temple Spire.

Lost Temple Spire beckons from Jackass Pass

After a long scramble up from the lake we enjoyed great
climbing on the Wind River granite as we inched our way up the Spire via Separation Anxiety. A sparse description
in the guidebook kept things exciting, as a 5.6 pitch held a surprise no-fall-zone
5.9 mantle and a “5.0 traverse” involved inching out on sloping blocks over the
sheer north face that drops off a thousand feet to the glacier below. The proud
skyline of the tower was accordingly strenuous, with a burly “5.9” fist crack
followed by the route’s signature pitch, a 65 meter hand crack. As in a 65
meter pitch with 63 meters of hand jams. With four red and three gold camalots
on my harness, I gazed up at the immaculate splitter that cut the white granite
above us beyond view, and felt my hands tingle with anticipation. The pitch was
pure joy, perfect jams with a gulf of air beneath, so little gear it wasn’t
even worth thinking about it. At the rope’s end I was huffing and puffing and
couldn’t help the huge grin on my face.

We climbed back onto the sunlit west face as the day grew
old and the light grew thick with the molten sun. We forgot the fatigue of the
day and the bustling wind and worked our way through the final problems to the
top of the Spire in a golden world of sky and stone. On the summit, the Wind
River Range extended before us in unending waves of peaks and valleys, ridges
and cliffs and dizzying vertical walls, each one holding the promise of
unwritten trials and discoveries. At these times, in the dying sunlight, the
future spreads as far as the mellowing horizon, in all directions,
tantalizingly close.

We’d earned our time in the Golden Hour, and had to pay up
too. Rapping the south ridge on-sight in the dark involved some uncertain
rope-stretching rappels, some manky anchors, and an entertaining half-hour
while I crouched in an alcove tied to a small block while JD finagled an anchor
somewhere above me. The mountain’s geometry forced us down narrow ledges away
from our packs and we had to descend a long way down and scramble the whole way
back up, our feet swollen in climbing shoes. It’s easy to get dejected on a
long slog back to camp, but the beauty of the place kept our spirits high. We sated
our raging thirst with the cold waters of Deep Lake and ambled down the slabs
of the valley, glittering in moonlight. We only got four hours sleep before
waking to the buzz of mosquitos and a threatening sky but jammed some coffee
and oats down the hatch and made the trek back to the car, tired and sore but
happy with the memory of the Golden Hour still fresh on our minds and worn into
the creases of our hands.

Inspiring terrain for days

Great exposure and some steep "5.9" jamming

The money pitch: 2.5 inch splitter for days.

The sheer north face of the Spire has fueled my dreams the past few nights. There still be glaciers in these parts!

JD finishes 65 meters of hand jamming

dreamy terrain

alpine mariachi

They don't call them the Wind River mountains for nothing...chilly breezes on the north prow of Lost Temple Spire. Can't wait to get back for more!

Saturday, April 18, 2015

One more try on the crux of Habanero, 5.12b, in Mexican limestone paradise.

So this
makes sense: I flew a thousand miles across the Mexican border to camp in a
tent in the rain, and it was the most civilized climbing trip of my life. I
must be either homeless, have really bad luck…or I’m a trad climber.

Day 3, I groggily
awoke in the soggy tent, slipped on sandals as Andrew kept slumbering, and
greeted the morning fog as I strolled leisurely to the kitchen at La Posada
campground where a stocked fridge and pantry lay in wait. The night’s rain
would take some time to dry from the cliffs, so I enjoyed the homey rituals of
making coffee and toast while exchanging pleasantries with other guests. I had
a sip and a nibble while reading my book (when’s the last time I read a book?)
and when Andrew arrived we cooked up a killer breakfast of tacos with fresh
mango and cilantro garnish, then after a stretch grabbed our rope and draws and
strolled up to the crag for a lovely afternoon of sport climbing.

As we
ambled back to the campground that evening, our arms a bit pumped but still
limber and light of foot, it occurred to me that this climbing trip was really
unlike any other I’d been on, and not just because I was in Mexico…it was
because we were sport climbing! I’m so used to returning to camp sore and
weary, it was refreshing to just walk back on a pleasant evening.

Ever since
I fell in love with vertical adventure I’ve bent my life around getting out in
wild places where we could wake up before dawn, bushwack to some monstrous
cliff, spend all day thrutching up it in a perpetual state of moderate terror,
then descend in the dark and bumble back through the night to a primitive camp
where we’d refuel the tank and crash out for another burn the next day. It was
all about the type-2 fun. It was TRAD! It was RAD! And scary, exhausting, and
has caused more soul-searching than I may have been looking for some days. Of
course, that was usually the point.

It wasn’t
until this trip to Potrero Chico that I realized how civilized sport climbing
can be. We slept in, enjoyed great meals of fresh local produce, and were
always home for supper. We enjoyed high-quality steep limestone every day, and
rarely had to worry about a fall.

air time

Of course,
we couldn’t resist taking a run up the Time Wave Zero, a unique route of 23
bolted pitches to the top of a 2,200 foot tall fin of limestone. (Much thanks
to the people who dragged all those bolts up there.) The route consists of
mostly moderate climbing, so linking 60 meter pitches one after another as we
climbed higher into the sky left us grinning from ear to ear. We did need to
wake up kinda early for that one—dawn in fact, but after enjoying the views
from the summit we simul-rapped 23 rappels, chugged the water we’d cached at
the base, and strolled back into camp for dinner.

I’ll
always be a trad climber at heart—my blessing or curse—but during a hard
semester of grad school, I think I’m learning to appreciate the simple pleasure
of a sport climbing trip.

Farmers market

These gorditas are so good. Fried thick corn tortillas stuffed with spicy shredded pork, what more can you ask for?

Tool, duct tape, and N64 game cartriges. Should I have been surprised?

Community bingo with bottle caps as tokens.

Andrew approaches the Bronco Cave

David Fay rides the Celestial Omnibus 5.12a

And we didn't even need to bring Tecate...turns out they have plenty down there! Until next time, Viva Mexico!

About Me

We may merely be upright apes with awkward body-hair patterns and big, clever brains that tend to tie us up in worried knots, but look at the groovy stuff we can do on the loose in this wild world! Why not get psyched?